by M. R. James
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M. R. JAMES
GHOST STORIES OF AN ANTIQUARY
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_These stories are dedicated to all those who at various times havelistened to them._
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CONTENTS
PART 1: GHOST STORIES OF AN ANTIQUARY
Canon Alberic's Scrap-book Lost Hearts The Mezzotint The Ash-tree Number 13 Count Magnus 'Oh, Whistle, and I'll Come to You, My Lad' The Treasure of Abbot Thomas
PART 2: MORE GHOST STORIES
A School Story The Rose Garden The Tractate Middoth Casting the Runes The Stalls of Barchester Cathedral Martin's Close Mr Humphreys and his Inheritance
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PART 1: GHOST STORIES OF AN ANTIQUARY
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If anyone is curious about my local settings, let it be recorded that StBertrand de Comminges and Viborg are real places: that in 'Oh, Whistle,and I'll Come to You' I had Felixstowe in mind. As for the fragments ofostensible erudition which are scattered about my pages, hardly anythingin them is not pure invention; there never was, naturally, any such bookas that which I quote in 'The Treasure of Abbot Thomas'. 'Canon Alberic'sScrap-book' was written in 1894 and printed soon after in the _NationalReview_, 'Lost Hearts' appeared in the _Pall Mall Magazine_; of the nextfive stories, most of which were read to friends at Christmas-time atKing's College, Cambridge, I only recollect that I wrote 'Number 13' in1899, while 'The Treasure of Abbot Thomas' was composed in the summer of1904.
M. R. JAMES
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CANON ALBERIC'S SCRAP-BOOK
St Bertrand de Comminges is a decayed town on the spurs of the Pyrenees,not very far from Toulouse, and still nearer to Bagneres-de-Luchon. Itwas the site of a bishopric until the Revolution, and has a cathedralwhich is visited by a certain number of tourists. In the spring of 1883an Englishman arrived at this old-world place--I can hardly dignify itwith the name of city, for there are not a thousand inhabitants. He was aCambridge man, who had come specially from Toulouse to see St Bertrand'sChurch, and had left two friends, who were less keen archaeologists thanhimself, in their hotel at Toulouse, under promise to join him on thefollowing morning. Half an hour at the church would satisfy _them_, andall three could then pursue their journey in the direction of Auch. Butour Englishman had come early on the day in question, and proposed tohimself to fill a note-book and to use several dozens of plates in theprocess of describing and photographing every corner of the wonderfulchurch that dominates the little hill of Comminges. In order to carry outthis design satisfactorily, it was necessary to monopolize the verger ofthe church for the day. The verger or sacristan (I prefer the latterappellation, inaccurate as it may be) was accordingly sent for by thesomewhat brusque lady who keeps the inn of the Chapeau Rouge; and when hecame, the Englishman found him an unexpectedly interesting object ofstudy. It was not in the personal appearance of the little, dry, wizenedold man that the interest lay, for he was precisely like dozens of otherchurch-guardians in France, but in a curious furtive or rather hunted andoppressed air which he had. He was perpetually half glancing behind him;the muscles of his back and shoulders seemed to be hunched in a continualnervous contraction, as if he were expecting every moment to find himselfin the clutch of an enemy. The Englishman hardly knew whether to put himdown as a man haunted by a fixed delusion, or as one oppressed by aguilty conscience, or as an unbearably henpecked husband. Theprobabilities, when reckoned up, certainly pointed to the last idea; but,still, the impression conveyed was that of a more formidable persecutoreven than a termagant wife.
However, the Englishman (let us call him Dennistoun) was soon too deep inhis note-book and too busy with his camera to give more than anoccasional glance to the sacristan. Whenever he did look at him, he foundhim at no great distance, either huddling himself back against the wallor crouching in one of the gorgeous stalls. Dennistoun became ratherfidgety after a time. Mingled suspicions that he was keeping the old manfrom his _dejeuner_, that he was regarded as likely to make away with StBertrand's ivory crozier, or with the dusty stuffed crocodile that hangsover the font, began to torment him.
'Won't you go home?' he said at last; 'I'm quite well able to finish mynotes alone; you can lock me in if you like. I shall want at least twohours more here, and it must be cold for you, isn't it?'
'Good heavens!' said the little man, whom the suggestion seemed to throwinto a state of unaccountable terror, 'such a thing cannot be thought offor a moment. Leave monsieur alone in the church? No, no; two hours,three hours, all will be the same to me. I have breakfasted, I am not atall cold, with many thanks to monsieur.'
'Very well, my little man,' quoth Dennistoun to himself: 'you have beenwarned, and you must take the consequences.'
Before the expiration of the two hours, the stalls, the enormousdilapidated organ, the choir-screen of Bishop John de Mauleon, theremnants of glass and tapestry, and the objects in the treasure-chamberhad been well and truly examined; the sacristan still keeping atDennistoun's heels, and every now and then whipping round as if he hadbeen stung, when one or other of the strange noises that trouble a largeempty building fell on his ear. Curious noises they were, sometimes.
'Once,' Dennistoun said to me, 'I could have sworn I heard a thinmetallic voice laughing high up in the tower. I darted an inquiringglance at my sacristan. He was white to the lips. "It is he--that is--itis no one; the door is locked," was all he said, and we looked at eachother for a full minute.'
Another little incident puzzled Dennistoun a good deal. He was examininga large dark picture that hangs behind the altar, one of a seriesillustrating the miracles of St Bertrand. The composition of the pictureis well-nigh indecipherable, but there is a Latin legend below, whichruns thus:
_Qualiter S. Bertrandus liberavit hominem quem diabolus diu volebat strangulare_. (How St Bertrand delivered a man whom the Devil long sought to strangle.)
Dennistoun was turning to the sacristan with a smile and a jocular remarkof some sort on his lips, but he was confounded to see the old man on hisknees, gazing at the picture with the eye of a suppliant in agony, hishands tightly clasped, and a rain of tears on his cheeks. Dennistounnaturally pretended to have noticed nothing, but the question would notgo away from him,'Why should a daub of this kind affect anyone sostrongly?' He seemed to himself to be getting some sort of clue to thereason of the strange look that had been puzzling him all the day: theman must be a monomaniac; but what was his monomania?
It was nearly five o'clock; the short day was drawing in, and the churchbegan to fill with shadows, while the curious noises--the muffledfootfalls and distant talking voices that had been perceptible allday--seemed, no doubt because of the fading light and the consequentlyquickened sense of hearing, to become more frequent and insistent.
The sacristan began for the first time to show signs of hurry andimpatience. He heaved a sigh of relief when camera and note-book werefinally packed up and stowed away, and hurriedly beckoned Dennistoun tothe western door of the church, under the tower. It was time to ring theAngelus. A few pulls at the reluctant rope, and the great bell Bertrande,high in the tower, began to speak, and swung her voice up among the pinesand down to the valleys, loud with mountain-streams, calling the dwellerson those lonely hills to remember and repeat the salutation of the angelto her whom he called Blessed among women. With that a profound quietseemed to fall for the first time that day upon the little town, andDennistoun and the sacristan went out of the church.
; On the doorstep they fell into conversation.
'Monsieur seemed to interest himself in the old choir-books in thesacristy.'
'Undoubtedly. I was going to ask you if there were a library in thetown.'
'No, monsieur; perhaps there used to be one belonging to the Chapter, butit is now such a small place--' Here came a strange pause ofirresolution, as it seemed; then, with a sort of plunge, he went on: 'Butif monsieur is _amateur des vieux livres_, I have at home something thatmight interest him. It is not a hundred yards.'
At once all Dennistoun's cherished dreams of finding pricelessmanuscripts in untrodden corners of France flashed up, to die down againthe next moment. It was probably a stupid missal of Plantin's printing,about 1580. Where was the likelihood that a place so near Toulouse wouldnot have been ransacked long ago by collectors? However, it would befoolish not to go; he would reproach himself for ever after if herefused. So they set off. On the way the curious irresolution and suddendetermination of the sacristan recurred to Dennistoun, and he wondered ina shamefaced way whether he was being decoyed into some purlieu to bemade away with as a supposed rich Englishman. He contrived, therefore, tobegin talking with his guide, and to drag in, in a rather clumsy fashion,the fact that he expected two friends to join him early the next morning.To his surprise, the announcement seemed to relieve the sacristan at onceof some of the anxiety that oppressed him.
'That is well,' he said quite brightly--'that is very well. Monsieur willtravel in company with his friends: they will be always near him. It is agood thing to travel thus in company--sometimes.'
The last word appeared to be added as an afterthought and to bring withit a relapse into gloom for the poor little man.
They were soon at the house, which was one rather larger than itsneighbours, stone-built, with a shield carved over the door, the shieldof Alberic de Mauleon, a collateral descendant, Dennistoun tells me, ofBishop John de Mauleon. This Alberic was a Canon of Comminges from 1680to 1701. The upper windows of the mansion were boarded up, and the wholeplace bore, as does the rest of Comminges, the aspect of decaying age.
Arrived on his doorstep, the sacristan paused a moment.
'Perhaps,' he said, 'perhaps, after all, monsieur has not the time?'
'Not at all--lots of time--nothing to do till tomorrow. Let us see whatit is you have got.'
The door was opened at this point, and a face looked out, a face faryounger than the sacristan's, but bearing something of the samedistressing look: only here it seemed to be the mark, not so much of fearfor personal safety as of acute anxiety on behalf of another. Plainly theowner of the face was the sacristan's daughter; and, but for theexpression I have described, she was a handsome girl enough. Shebrightened up considerably on seeing her father accompanied by anable-bodied stranger. A few remarks passed between father and daughter ofwhich Dennistoun only caught these words, said by the sacristan: 'He waslaughing in the church,' words which were answered only by a look ofterror from the girl.
But in another minute they were in the sitting-room of the house, asmall, high chamber with a stone floor, full of moving shadows cast by awood-fire that flickered on a great hearth. Something of the character ofan oratory was imparted to it by a tall crucifix, which reached almost tothe ceiling on one side; the figure was painted of the natural colours,the cross was black. Under this stood a chest of some age and solidity,and when a lamp had been brought, and chairs set, the sacristan went tothis chest, and produced therefrom, with growing excitement andnervousness, as Dennistoun thought, a large book, wrapped in a whitecloth, on which cloth a cross was rudely embroidered in red thread. Evenbefore the wrapping had been removed, Dennistoun began to be interestedby the size and shape of the volume. 'Too large for a missal,' hethought, 'and not the shape of an antiphoner; perhaps it may be somethinggood, after all.' The next moment the book was open, and Dennistoun feltthat he had at last lit upon something better than good. Before him lay alarge folio, bound, perhaps, late in the seventeenth century, with thearms of Canon Alberic de Mauleon stamped in gold on the sides. There mayhave been a hundred and fifty leaves of paper in the book, and on almostevery one of them was fastened a leaf from an illuminated manuscript.Such a collection Dennistoun had hardly dreamed of in his wildestmoments. Here were ten leaves from a copy of Genesis, illustrated withpictures, which could not be later than A.D. 700. Further on was acomplete set of pictures from a Psalter, of English execution, of thevery finest kind that the thirteenth century could produce; and, perhapsbest of all, there were twenty leaves of uncial writing in Latin, which,as a few words seen here and there told him at once, must belong to somevery early unknown patristic treatise. Could it possibly be a fragment ofthe copy of Papias 'On the Words of Our Lord', which was known to haveexisted as late as the twelfth century at Nimes?[1] In any case, his mindwas made up; that book must return to Cambridge with him, even if he hadto draw the whole of his balance from the bank and stay at St. Bertrandtill the money came. He glanced up at the sacristan to see if his faceyielded any hint that the book was for sale. The sacristan was pale, andhis lips were working.
[1] We now know that these leaves did contain a considerable fragment of that work, if not of that actual copy of it.
'If monsieur will turn on to the end,' he said.
So monsieur turned on, meeting new treasures at every rise of a leaf; andat the end of the book he came upon two sheets of paper, of much morerecent date than anything he had seen yet, which puzzled himconsiderably. They must be contemporary, he decided, with theunprincipled Canon Alberic, who had doubtless plundered the Chapterlibrary of St Bertrand to form this priceless scrap-book. On the first ofthe paper sheets was a plan, carefully drawn and instantly recognizableby a person who knew the ground, of the south aisle and cloisters of StBertrand's. There were curious signs looking like planetary symbols, anda few Hebrew words in the corners; and in the north-west angle of thecloister was a cross drawn in gold paint. Below the plan were some linesof writing in Latin, which ran thus:
_Responsa 12(mi) Dec. 1694. Interrogatum est: Inveniamne? Responsum est: Invenies. Fiamne dives? Fies. Vivamne invidendus? Vives. Moriarne in lecto meo? Ita._ (Answers of the 12th of December, 1694. It was asked: Shall I find it? Answer: Thou shalt. Shall I become rich? Thou wilt. Shall I live an object of envy? Thou wilt. Shall I die in my bed? Thou wilt.)
'A good specimen of the treasure-hunter's record--quite reminds one of MrMinor-Canon Quatremain in _Old St Paul's_,' was Dennistoun's comment, andhe turned the leaf.
What he then saw impressed him, as he has often told me, more than hecould have conceived any drawing or picture capable of impressing him.And, though the drawing he saw is no longer in existence, there is aphotograph of it (which I possess) which fully bears out that statement.The picture in question was a sepia drawing at the end of the seventeenthcentury, representing, one would say at first sight, a Biblical scene;for the architecture (the picture represented an interior) and thefigures had that semi-classical flavour about them which the artists oftwo hundred years ago thought appropriate to illustrations of the Bible.On the right was a king on his throne, the throne elevated on twelvesteps, a canopy overhead, soldiers on either side--evidently KingSolomon. He was bending forward with outstretched sceptre, in attitude ofcommand; his face expressed horror and disgust, yet there was in it alsothe mark of imperious command and confident power. The left half of thepicture was the strangest, however. The interest plainly centred there.
On the pavement before the throne were grouped four soldiers, surroundinga crouching figure which must be described in a moment. A fifth soldierlay dead on the pavement, his neck distorted, and his eye-balls startingfrom his head. The four surrounding guards were looking at the King. Intheir faces, the sentiment of horror was intensified; they seemed, infact, only restrained from flight by their implicit trust in theirmaster. All this terror was plainly excited by the being that crouched intheir midst.
I entirely despair of conveying by any words the impression
which thisfigure makes upon anyone who looks at it. I recollect once showing thephotograph of the drawing to a lecturer on morphology--a person of, I wasgoing to say, abnormally sane and unimaginative habits of mind. Heabsolutely refused to be alone for the rest of that evening, and he toldme afterwards that for many nights he had not dared to put out his lightbefore going to sleep. However, the main traits of the figure I can atleast indicate.
At first you saw only a mass of coarse, matted black hair; presently itwas seen that this covered a body of fearful thinness, almost a skeleton,but with the muscles standing out like wires. The hands were of a duskypallor, covered, like the body, with long, coarse hairs, and hideouslytaloned. The eyes, touched in with a burning yellow, had intensely blackpupils, and were fixed upon the throned King with a look of beast-likehate. Imagine one of the awful bird-catching spiders of South Americatranslated into human form, and endowed with intelligence just less thanhuman, and you will have some faint conception of the terror inspired bythe appalling effigy. One remark is universally made by those to whom Ihave shown the picture: 'It was drawn from the life.'
As soon as the first shock of his irresistible fright had subsided,Dennistoun stole a look at his hosts. The sacristan's hands were pressedupon his eyes; his daughter, looking up at the cross on the wall, wastelling her beads feverishly.
At last the question was asked: 'Is this book for sale?'
There was the same hesitation, the same plunge of determination that hehad noticed before, and then came the welcome answer: 'If monsieurpleases.'
'How much do you ask for it?'
'I will take two hundred and fifty francs.'
This was confounding. Even a collector's conscience is sometimes stirred,and Dennistoun's conscience was tenderer than a collector's.
'My good man!' he said again and again, 'your book is worth far more thantwo hundred and fifty francs. I assure you--far more.'
But the answer did not vary: 'I will take two hundred and fiftyfrancs--not more.'
There was really no possibility of refusing such a chance. The money waspaid, the receipt signed, a glass of wine drunk over the transaction, andthen the sacristan seemed to become a new man. He stood upright, heceased to throw those suspicious glances behind him, he actually laughedor tried to laugh. Dennistoun rose to go.
'I shall have the honour of accompanying monsieur to his hotel?' said thesacristan.
'Oh, no, thanks! it isn't a hundred yards. I know the way perfectly, andthere is a moon.'
The offer was pressed three or four times and refused as often.
'Then, monsieur will summon me if--if he finds occasion; he will keep themiddle of the road, the sides are so rough.'
'Certainly, certainly,' said Dennistoun, who was impatient to examine hisprize by himself; and he stepped out into the passage with his book underhis arm.
Here he was met by the daughter; she, it appeared, was anxious to do alittle business on her own account; perhaps, like Gehazi, to 'takesomewhat' from the foreigner whom her father had spared.
'A silver crucifix and chain for the neck; monsieur would perhaps be goodenough to accept it?'
Well, really, Dennistoun hadn't much use for these things. What didmademoiselle want for it?
'Nothing--nothing in the world. Monsieur is more than welcome to it.'
The tone in which this and much more was said was unmistakably genuine,so that Dennistoun was reduced to profuse thanks, and submitted to havethe chain put round his neck. It really seemed as if he had rendered thefather and daughter some service which they hardly knew how to repay. Ashe set off with his book they stood at the door looking after him, andthey were still looking when he waved them a last good night from thesteps of the Chapeau Rouge.
Dinner was over, and Dennistoun was in his bedroom, shut up alone withhis acquisition. The landlady had manifested a particular interest in himsince he had told her that he had paid a visit to the sacristan andbought an old book from him. He thought, too, that he had heard a hurrieddialogue between her and the said sacristan in the passage outside the_salle a manger_; some words to the effect that 'Pierre and Bertrandwould be sleeping in the house' had closed the conversation.
All this time a growing feeling of discomfort had been creeping overhim--nervous reaction, perhaps, after the delight of his discovery.Whatever it was, it resulted in a conviction that there was someonebehind him, and that he was far more comfortable with his back to thewall. All this, of course, weighed light in the balance as against theobvious value of the collection he had acquired. And now, as I said, hewas alone in his bedroom, taking stock of Canon Alberic's treasures, inwhich every moment revealed something more charming.
'Bless Canon Alberic!' said Dennistoun, who had an inveterate habit oftalking to himself. 'I wonder where he is now? Dear me! I wish thatlandlady would learn to laugh in a more cheering manner; it makes onefeel as if there was someone dead in the house. Half a pipe more, did yousay? I think perhaps you are right. I wonder what that crucifix is thatthe young woman insisted on giving me? Last century, I suppose. Yes,probably. It is rather a nuisance of a thing to have round one'sneck--just too heavy. Most likely her father has been wearing it foryears. I think I might give it a clean up before I put it away.'
He had taken the crucifix off, and laid it on the table, when hisattention was caught by an object lying on the red cloth just by his leftelbow. Two or three ideas of what it might be flitted through his brainwith their own incalculable quickness.
A penwiper? No, no such thing in the house. A rat? No, too black. A largespider? I trust to goodness not--no. Good God! a hand like the hand inthat picture!
In another infinitesimal flash he had taken it in. Pale, dusky skin,covering nothing but bones and tendons of appalling strength; coarseblack hairs, longer than ever grew on a human hand; nails rising from theends of the fingers and curving sharply down and forward, grey, horny,and wrinkled.
He flew out of his chair with deadly, inconceivable terror clutching athis heart. The shape, whose left hand rested on the table, was rising toa standing posture behind his seat, its right hand crooked above hisscalp. There was black and tattered drapery about it; the coarse haircovered it as in the drawing. The lower jaw was thin--what can I callit?--shallow, like a beast's; teeth showed behind the black lips; therewas no nose; the eyes, of a fiery yellow, against which the pupils showedblack and intense, and the exulting hate and thirst to destroy life whichshone there, were the most horrifying features in the whole vision. Therewas intelligence of a kind in them--intelligence beyond that of a beast,below that of a man.
The feelings which this horror stirred in Dennistoun were the intensestphysical fear and the most profound mental loathing. What did he do? Whatcould he do? He has never been quite certain what words he said, but heknows that he spoke, that he grasped blindly at the silver crucifix, thathe was conscious of a movement towards him on the part of the demon, andthat he screamed with the voice of an animal in hideous pain.
Pierre and Bertrand, the two sturdy little serving-men, who rushed in,saw nothing, but felt themselves thrust aside by something that passedout between them, and found Dennistoun in a swoon. They sat up with himthat night, and his two friends were at St Bertrand by nine o'clock nextmorning. He himself, though still shaken and nervous, was almost himselfby that time, and his story found credence with them, though not untilthey had seen the drawing and talked with the sacristan.
Almost at dawn the little man had come to the inn on some pretence, andhad listened with the deepest interest to the story retailed by thelandlady. He showed no surprise.
'It is he--it is he! I have seen him myself,' was his only comment; andto all questionings but one reply was vouchsafed: 'Deux fois je l'ai vu:mille fois je l'ai senti.' He would tell them nothing of the provenanceof the book, nor any details of his experiences. 'I shall soon sleep, andmy rest will be sweet. Why should you trouble me?' he said.[2]
[2] He died that summer; his daughter married, and settled at St Papoul. She never
understood the circumstances of her father's 'obsession'.
We shall never know what he or Canon Alberic de Mauleon suffered. At theback of that fateful drawing were some lines of writing which may besupposed to throw light on the situation:
_Contradictio Salomonis cum demonio nocturno. Albericus de Mauleone delineavit. V. Deus in adiutorium. Ps. Qui habitat. Sancte Bertrande, demoniorum effugator, intercede pro me miserrimo. Primum uidi nocte 12(mi) Dec. 1694: uidebo mox ultimum. Peccaui et passus sum, plura adhuc passurus. Dec. 29, 1701_.[3]
[3] _i.e._, The Dispute of Solomon with a demon of the night. Drawn by Alberic de Mauleon. _Versicle_. O Lord, make haste to help me. _Psalm_. Whoso dwelleth xci.
Saint Bertrand, who puttest devils to flight, pray for me most unhappy. I saw it first on the night of Dec. 12, 1694: soon I shall see it for the last time. I have sinned and suffered, and have more to suffer yet. Dec. 29, 1701.
The 'Gallia Christiana' gives the date of the Canon's death as December 31, 1701, 'in bed, of a sudden seizure'. Details of this kind are not common in the great work of the Sammarthani.
I have never quite understood what was Dennistoun's view of the events Ihave narrated. He quoted to me once a text from Ecclesiasticus: 'Somespirits there be that are created for vengeance, and in their fury lay onsore strokes.' On another occasion he said: 'Isaiah was a very sensibleman; doesn't he say something about night monsters living in the ruins ofBabylon? These things are rather beyond us at present.'
Another confidence of his impressed me rather, and I sympathized with it.We had been, last year, to Comminges, to see Canon Alberic's tomb. It isa great marble erection with an effigy of the Canon in a large wig andsoutane, and an elaborate eulogy of his learning below. I saw Dennistountalking for some time with the Vicar of St Bertrand's, and as we droveaway he said to me: 'I hope it isn't wrong: you know I am aPresbyterian--but I--I believe there will be "saying of Mass and singingof dirges" for Alberic de Mauleon's rest.' Then he added, with a touch ofthe Northern British in his tone, 'I had no notion they came so dear.'
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The book is in the Wentworth Collection at Cambridge. The drawing wasphotographed and then burnt by Dennistoun on the day when he leftComminges on the occasion of his first visit.